


Hopping Down the Bunny Trail

by heilz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But mostly hurt haha sorry, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Memory Loss, Psychological Trauma, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heilz/pseuds/heilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is alone in the normal “Muggle” world, but it’s the only one left to him after waking up in a bed in Bent’s Psychiatric Hospital. With the only world that ever accepted him through strife, hardships, and love: gone, he clings to the one man that seemed to live this twist of realities into a world that appears ever darker than one threatened by Voldemort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Woken

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got inspiration for this story from another fic I’d been writing for the Hannibal fandom. It’s kind of fucked up (I mean, I hope—that’s basically what I’m aiming for, so if you’re looking for fluffy kisses and acceptance, you’re in quite the wrong place), and the beginning is about as benign as this story is going to get; everything goes downhill from here.  
> So if you’re into hurt and comfort but then more hurt on top of that—have a read!  
> Also, if Emmy, Carlie, or MJ are reading this, I'm sorry, but it had to be done.

Harry Potter was awake. _Completely_ awake, and yet no one had laughed and said this was a joke yet. He was waiting for Ron to come crashing through the heavy, prison-like door to his left and yell “Surprise!” with Hermione at his heels with those magic crackers and maybe another goodie from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes—though he pushed that thought away, as thinking of anything remotely related to Fred and his death would reduce him to a puddle of remorse, self-loathing, and tears once more. He couldn’t really bear to think of walking back into the store with only one Weasley twin to greet him with a smile and a bang of something explosive.

So he waited for what seemed like hours on end, patient, glancing round at the sickly pristine room he was trapped in. A Muggle hospital, no doubt. Had he been hurt? That would explain the fact that no one had come in to tell the joke off, but he couldn’t quite remember. However, the place didn’t smell of anesthetics and cleaning alcohol. He tried not to think about that much as he took in the white walls, white tile, minimal furniture—he also pushed away the fact that he was held to a hospital bed by soft bands at his wrists and ankles.

Suddenly, the door to his left did indeed burst open—but instead of being greeted with laughs and a shock of ginger hair, a young woman with bright blonde locks holding a clipboard sidled up to his bed, pulling a rolling chair behind her as she went and sitting down once she’d reached his bedside.

“Mr. Potter?” she said, smiling faintly at him. Her tone spoke that she’d said his name many times before, maybe in a similar situation—exasperated was what it was.

“Yes?” It was the first time he’d used his voice since waking up, and he was startled to find it croaky, as if it hadn’t been in use in a long, long time. He wondered if he’d hit his head in the post-war celebration, though he knew he couldn’t have been out for more than a week.

Apparently, his reply startled the woman as much as his own voice did. She jumped in her rolling chair, almost slipping off it as she did so, and it took her a moment to think of what to do.

Smiling brilliantly at him—the difference between this smile and the first one was astronomical—she hopped up off the chair and nearly skipped out of the room. Through the open door he heard her yell, “Dr. Nelson! Dr. Nelson! He’s awake! Harry Potter is awake!”

Harry sat on the woman’s words, bemused. Why would it be so amazing to a Muggle if he was awake? Sure, maybe she was a witch in disguise as Harry’s nurse, but she shouldn’t go all crazy to her Muggle coworkers just because another “ordinary” patient woke up from, well, whatever had been afflicting him. That would raise questions, and he didn’t want to get her in trouble.

“Psst!” Harry hissed, just before the door shut, and thankfully, the woman heard him. She opened the door right back up and sped over to his bedside, her bright eyes glittering.

“Do you need anything? Water, perhaps? I’m sure you’re thirsty, here—”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he assured her, “but you need to keep it down. You don’t want the Muggles questioning why you’re really here. Thanks, though,” he added as her face fell. He thought it was due to his scolding—after all, he _had_ just killed the greatest Dark wizard of all time: People were bound to seek his approval, especially if they went as far as to infiltrate the Muggle hospital he’d been taken to after whatever had happened.

“M-Muggle, did you say?” she asked, falling back onto her chair. “Oh, dear.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Was she a Muggle after all?

Before he could elaborate upon that train of thought, the heavy door opened again, and a stout, older lady entered the room, also holding a clipboard. As he glanced over the glasses that sat pompously at the bridge of her nose, he realized for the first time that his surroundings _did_ appear blurry to a degree. He looked around for his glasses until he was addressed yet again.

“Harry?” the new woman said, smiling sweetly to Harry, the kind of smile that Madam Pomfrey gave him whenever he downed a particularly bitter dose of medicine. “How are you feeling?”

He gave her another once-over—definitely Muggle. “Fine,” he said. “How did I get here? What happened?” Willing to risk it, he added, “Are any of my friends waiting for me, d’you know? Like a Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger?”

The stout woman—Dr. Nelson—slowly peeled her gaze from Harry to the nurse sitting beside her. The woman gave her a feeble look and said, “He said something about ‘Muggles’, Dr. Nelson. I don’t really know what to make of it…”

When Dr. Nelson turned back to Harry, her smile was still like that of Madam Pomfrey, yet her voice took on an artificial honey-like quality not unlike Umbridge. The thought made him shiver. “Harry, dear, do you need anything? Water? Orange juice?”

Harry, growing increasingly impatient, snapped, “No! Are any of my friends here?”

Dr. Nelson’s smile disappeared.

“You’re sure this has never happened before, Gracie?” Dr. Nelson asked, still looking at Harry, but he supposed she was talking to the nurse at her side.

“Never…whenever he’d wake up he would never be fully conscious like he is now…”

Harry blinked at that. So he _had_ been out cold. Well, it was good that he was awake now—but he had to find someone, preferably Ron or Hermione or both, to get him the hell out of there.

“Look,” he said, “I know this looks bad, but I’m fine. Trust me, whatever happened, I’m fine. So if you could just discharge me or whatever so I can find my friends—”

“Harry, we’ll do that, sweetie,” Dr. Nelson said, and for the first time turned her attention to her clipboard and began to furiously scribble notes onto the paper clipped there.

“Okay, but can you do it now? These are starting to bother me,” he said, nodding to his restraints. He supposed they were there to keep him steady; after all, he did tend to thrash about when he was unconscious if he was being tormented by bad dreams, of which usually included a certain snake-like someone, but he couldn’t remember dreaming anything of the sort. In fact, he couldn’t remember dreaming at all.

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Nelson said airily, glancing from her clipboard to Harry’s restraints and back again. “Sorry, dear, but we need to run some tests before we can let you out of those.”

“Tests?” Harry echoed. Dr. Nelson nodded.

“Nothing to worry about though, my dear boy! We’ll run you through some simple tests and if you pass, you’ll be fit to discharge.” She didn’t add the fact that the tests would take weeks to complete. “Once you’re free to leave we’ll contact your family—”

“Wait, you mean the Dursleys?” Harry interjected, balling his fists. “No! I’m of age, I’m free to live wherever I want! I _refuse_ to go back to the Dursleys. Besides, they evacuated Privet Drive, I’m not even sure where they are right now—”

“Not back to the Dursleys, no, Harry,” Dr. Nelson said calmly. “The Dursleys were…” she trailed off, looking concerned. She glanced at Gracie, who shrugged and shook her head a little.

“Well,” Dr. Nelson continued, “never you mind about that.”

“What happened to the Dursleys?” Harry questioned, curiosity burning through his indignity.

Dr. Nelson gave another glance at Gracie, who offered no subtle input this time, then back at her clipboard, then back at Harry. “They…lost their guardianship rights when you were eleven, back when you were transferred here. A nice, new family adopted you—they never gave up on you, Harry, never. They will be delighted to hear that you’re finally awake. Two very nice men, Xander and Joseph. You see, they’ve been paying for treatment all this time, and I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when you really meet for the first time.”

Harry stared at her. Now he was waiting for _her_ to jump up, laugh her own words off, yell “Gotcha!” and be done with this horrible joke. Because Harry wasn’t really finding it all that funny anymore.

“But…that’s impossible,” Harry said, shaking his head harshly. “I just left the Dursleys a year ago. For their safety. They could have been killed…”

“That’s quite understandable, dear,” Dr. Nelson said. “You fell into your coma well before Child Services made their way to the Dursley home. You have never met Xander or Joseph, and that’s probably why they weren’t included in your hallu—dreams.”

Harry couldn’t understand why she was talking about a “Xander and Joseph”. He’d never met anyone under the name of either. And Child Services? What business did they have at the Dursleys’? Sure, they never treated him amazingly, but he never thought himself _truly_ abused to the point of illegality. And that word…“coma”.

“What do you mean, ‘coma’?” he asked.

“You…well, dear, you just woke up! This is no time to be worrying about that, it is a time for celebration! I’ll call Xander and Joseph right away, so they can finally meet their new son!”

And she hurried away, clipboard in hand, and as she closed the door he could see that her face did not in fact match her merry tone, but reflected a look of confusion and worry. Then she scurried off.

“Harry, are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” Gracie asked tentatively, pulling Harry’s attention back to her. “I could even get you something light to eat, like broth perhaps, or maybe some sliced fruit—”

“I don’t _want_ broth or sliced fruit, I want to leave!” he yelled, and the woman flinched. “I need to see my friends—Ron, Hermione—are you absolutely sure they haven’t been here to see me, or pick me up?”

“No, Mr. Potter, Ron and Hermione don’t—” She cut herself off, tears in her eyes.

“Don’t _what_?” Harry snarled.

“They—I’m—”

Harry rattled his restraints. “I don’t belong here!” he burst out, on the verge of screeching to the world he’d just saved them, yes, even the Muggles, from utter devastation in the form of Voldemort. He’d won the war, and now wizards and Muggles alike were able to continue their blissful symbiotic relationship in which they dealt with each other as little as possible. It was because of _him,_ yet now he was strapped to some hospital bed in some Muggle hospital where the idiots themselves didn’t know who they were keeping, and really, where _were_ Ron and Hermione?

“Please, Harry, try to calm down—”

“I won’t calm down until I’m out of this blasted Muggle hospital! Why couldn’t I have just been sent to St. Mungo’s? They would release me once I was better, and I’m _fine_ now!”

The woman scrabbled upwards, her rolling chair slipping away, and scurried from the room. He could hear her calling Dr. Nelson back before the door shut with a finite bang.

“Ron! Hermione!” he screamed, not able to contain a newfound sense of claustrophobia at the prospect of being left alone in this sickeningly sterile room. He became hyperaware of the beeping noises that now engulfed him, and turned—ignoring the strain the action put on his wrists and ankles—to see electric monitors hooked to the wall beside his bed. He looked down, noticing for the first time the IVs and sensors placed in seemingly random areas about his arms, some extending from the sleeve of his white gown to reach, he assumed, his chest.

These accessories did little to calm his increasingly panicked nerves, and he raised his voice to a screech, suddenly feeling very alone in this Muggle hospital room. _“Please, get me out of here!”_

The door slammed open once more, and he looked up to see Dr. Nelson pacing toward him, a taller, important-looking man at her heels.

“Dr. Brady, he just woke up, I don’t—” Dr. Nelson began, her voice high and unstable.

“Keep your voice down, Doctor,” the man, Dr. Brady, urged in a low monotone. “He’s panicking. His instincts are being suppressed, and he can’t do anything about it. Can’t fight, nor take flight. Since he just woke up, he’s bound to panic from not being able to accomplish or choose between either.” Dr. Brady sat on Nurse Gracie’s previously vacated rolling chair and pushed up to sit beside Harry.

“Harry, I’m Doctor Carson Brady,” the man said, slowly, but not to the point of degradation that would make Harry feel like an unintelligent child. “You’re at Bent’s Psychiatric Hospital, Harry.” He paused, as if to let the name of the hospital sink in. Harry didn’t pay much attention to it. “Do you know why you are here?”

“I…” Harry gulped, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t feel like yelling at this man to bring him Ron or Hermione. “I must have…hit my head. Or something. I’m not sure….How long was I out?”

Dr. Brady nodded, and snapped at Dr. Nelson. She quickly began scribbling again on her clipboard.

“How old are you, Harry?” Dr. Brady asked, ignoring Harry’s own question.

“…Seventeen. What happened? Do _you_ know why I’m here?”

“Who are Ron and Hermione, Harry?”

“They’re my best friends. I thought they’d be here if they heard I’d been hurt, but…” He almost said, “But if this is a Muggle hospital, they might not know where I am,” but refrained in time.

His reply was met with the scratching of pen on paper and Dr. Brady’s encouraging smile.

“When did you meet Ron and Hermione?”

“Way back in my first year at—well, when I was eleven, anyway,” he brushed off his nearly exposing comment hastily, hoping the doctor didn’t press on his slip up.

He didn’t. “Harry, do you remember being awake on the twenty-third of November this year?”

“What? I—no? Well, yes, I was out chasing…doing stuff, during that time. But why does that matter? It’s June now, right?”

A shadow passed over Dr. Brady’s face, but it disappeared as fleetingly as it’d come, and the man gave Harry little time to mull anything over as he began his next round of strange questions. “Do you remember anything about the summer you turned eleven, Harry?”

Harry blanched. Did they know he was a wizard? “I…yes, of course I do.”

“Can you describe it for me?”

“I…” Harry thought for a moment, then realized that he might be let out if he told the truth. Of course, if he could just find his wand he’d be able to Obliviate them into never being the wiser about his next words. “Yeah. I got a letter from Hogwarts, a school for young witches and wizards, saying that I would be a student there. Well,” he added, after thinking about it a little more, “not before my aunt and uncle tried to keep me from reading the letter. We were at a little cottage on the sea when Hagrid—a teacher at Hogwarts, he’s a half-giant—came and bust down the door, then told me I was a wizard.” He wanted to laugh at the looks on the two doctors’ faces.

“And he told me my parents didn’t really die in a car crash, too. And he told me…” Harry frowned. “He told me about Voldemort. Now, you obviously have no idea what I’m talking about, since you’re Muggles, but Voldemort was the most evil Dark wizard of our time. He was the one that killed my parents.”

“ _Was,_ did you say?” Dr. Brady asked, his voice solid though his expression was a mixture of bemusement and wonder.

“Yeah, was. You see,” Harry couldn’t help the proud smile that came over him, “I killed him.”

Dr. Nelson was scribbling harder than ever, and Dr. Brady nodded weakly. “You…killed this Dark wizard?” he asked to clarify.

“Yes, I did what I had lived to do! I’m the Boy Who Lived, and I killed Voldemort. I saved the wizarding world from him! Well, with the help of all my friends, of course. I couldn’t have done it without Ron, Hermione, Neville…I guess I couldn’t have done it without even Malfoy.”

Dr. Nelson stopped writing abruptly. Dr. Brady froze. “Malfoy?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Draco Malfoy. He Disarmed Dumbledore, you see,” Harry added to the doctors’ mirrored expressions of confusion, though his clarification probably did little to inform them of what he was really talking about. Truly, his tale would take days to tell, if they really wanted to know what’d happened. It would probably be able to fill a whole seven novels. “And because of that, he was the owner of the Elder Wand. But then I Disarmed Malfoy, so the Elder Wand became mine, even though Voldemort still got his hands on it. But the Elder Wand wouldn’t be able to kill its master, so when Voldemort tried to, his Avada Kedavra curse simply rebounded against my own Expelliarmus and killed him instead.” Harry’s brow furrowed.

“The only thing I regret, I guess, is that a lot of my friends died over the past couple years…”

Dr. Brady cleared his throat, and Harry looked at him. His face was the depiction of shock. “Well…”

“But was there something about Malfoy?” Harry pressed.

“Well, yes, there is a…a Draco Malfoy, he’s a patient at this hospital, actually.”

“Really? Did we get into a fight?” Harry sighed. “I thought after saving his life, we’d both get some respite and just not have to deal with each other anymore. Only, I don’t remember a fight. I hope I didn’t start it, Hermione’d be pissed.”

“Don’t worry, Harry, you didn’t start any fight,” Dr. Brady said distantly. “I…I’m going to go check on Mr. Malfoy, Dr. Nelson. Will you watch Harry for me?”

Dr. Nelson nodded hesitantly. Harry wanted to assure her that he wouldn’t yell again, but the words got caught on the way up so he simply let it be.

Minutes passed like eons, Harry staring at the ceiling and trying to suppress the heavy emotions that rose from deep within after he mentioned the final battle at Hogwarts. So much had happened in such a short time…Voldemort was dead, yes, but so was Fred…Lupin…Tonks…Dobby…even Mad-Eye Moody, who’d died before his hunt for the rest of the Horcruxes truly begun….

Finally, the door opened again, and Dr. Brady was back. He beckoned Dr. Nelson over to where he was standing and whispered fervently to her, his eyes flicking over to Harry every so often.

He watched Dr. Nelson’s blurry lips and saw that she whispered back, _“Should we tell him?”_ and huffed when Dr. Brady shook his head minutely.

“Tell me what?” Harry demanded, and both doctors’ gazes snapped toward him.

“Harry…” Dr. Nelson began, but a glance at Dr. Brady’s harsh glare silenced her.

“Tell me! What’s wrong with Malfoy?”

“Harry, we can’t—”

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH MALFOY?”

Dr. Brady sent another spiteful glare Dr. Nelson’s way, which she caught and looked away from as if slapped. “Harry, Draco Malfoy does not know a Harry Potter.”

Harry finally let the laugh that’d been simmering within him for a while now escape into the stuffy air. “That’s ludicrous! I guess I won the fight, huh? He just doesn’t want to admit—”

“Harry, the patient Draco Malfoy isn’t here at a psychiatric hospital because of a fight between the two of you, and I believe him when he says he does not know you,” Dr. Brady said gently.

“He’s lying—I know he’s lying—we’ve been enemies for years, ever since that day in Diagon Alley—please, let me talk to him—”

“Harry, Mr. Malfoy needs rest, as do you. He’s not here for the same reason, but…” Dr. Brady sighed. “How old is the Draco Malfoy you know?”

Harry began to tremble. “S-Seventeen…same age as m-me…”

“Mr. Malfoy is twenty-three, Harry,” Dr. Brady said with a sad smile.

Harry shuddered. “No, no no no no no no no no…”

“Is he going to start yelling again, Doctor…?” Dr. Nelson asked, but her words were muffled and Harry’s head felt heavy. He wanted to yell, yes, but he couldn’t. But even more than that, he wanted to find Malfoy and throttle him.

“No, I think he’s exhausted…keep an eye on his monitors, will you? Alert me if there’re any irregularities. For now, I’m going to talk to Mr. Malfoy…”

And before Harry was out cold, for _real_ this time, not the utter bullshit the doctors had been talking about for the past half hour, he saw Dr. Brady look at him in a way that was so familiar it drilled a hole in his heart.


	2. Meet the Real Draco Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change to our lovely, not-so-fucked-up Draco.  
> ALSO, this hella early update is a rarity! I won't be able to update daily all the time...but this fic is doing a good job of practically writing itself. Inspiration for each chapter keeps popping out at me from all angles! (Angles that include the classroom...somehow...)

Draco Malfoy was an ordinary man. He was, really. He liked watching football on the television he was provided, and read sports magazines like a man his age was supposed to. Whenever he went to the mess hall for meals—the only time he ever really wandered out of his room, for one reason or another—he would talk to the other guys about sports and girls and things other _normal_ guys talked about.

But every time he looked in the mirror, he saw his father, saw his expression of repulsion, and itched for a beer, whiskey, hell…he’d go back and take up his dealer’s offer for heroin at this point. But the fact that nothing at all was running through his system, that he was sober as shit, burned through his veins. He hadn’t had a drop of anything since he’d set foot in this hospital on his father’s orders three years before. And he still couldn’t cope.

So, more on his wishes than his father’s at this point, he kept himself locked up in his room at Bent’s, wanting nothing more than to fade into nothingness before trying to face the outside world without substance. Apparently his father didn’t mind. He’d paid for the past couple years without visit or complaint.

And yet, Draco still couldn’t bring himself to confront _why_ he’d gone and gotten himself addicted in the first place, why he was afraid to show his face too much. The face of a man that tried his very best to be normal, but even if he accomplished that, it was a lie, and as much as Draco loved lying—however good he was at it—Draco did not want to _live_ a lie. And even if he could do that, his father would know the truth, the horrible, ugly truth about him….

He was consumed in these downwardly-spiraling thoughts as he usually was at some point or another each day when a familiar face suddenly appeared, wrenching him from his self-degradation.

“Dr. Brady!” he exclaimed.

“Afternoon, Draco.” Dr. Brady’s greeting was rushed, and Draco noticed that he was rather flushed and his breathing irregular.

“Something wrong?”

“Draco,” Dr. Brady said, “Draco. I need to know if you know a young man named Harry Potter.”

Draco merely stared at his doctor. He wondered at first if this was part of some joke Draco would understand later, but the hard, serious glint in Dr. Brady’s eye told him otherwise. He shook his head slowly.

“No, I don’t….Sorry?”

“No, it’s quite alright, quite alright,” the doctor assured him, and sighed. “He’s not going to like that, though….”

“Who’s not going to like what?” Draco asked, suddenly curious.

Dr. Brady shook his head and brought a hand up to his face, pressing on his closed eyes. The look of exhaustion aged his young face well beyond its years. “Well, you see, this patient we’ve been looking after for a long time now just woke up, and he’s very…confused.”

“I’m guessing the patient is Harry Potter?” Draco said, setting down the magazine he’d been glaring at for the past hour, though he hadn’t turned a single page while he’d been lost in thought.

“Yes, he’s a very rare case…he’s been in a sort of coma for the past seven years. Doctor-patient confidentiality,” he added when Draco opened his mouth to ask why. But Draco knew that if he really wanted to know, he could get the information out of Dr. Brady. They’d been close friends for the past couple of years, since Draco was one of the most level-headed and, he daresay, _normal_ patients at Bent’s. He’d also been there a long time for someone who was so objectively cured.

“So why did you want to know if I know him?”

“Well, that’s just the thing. He says he knows you. Knew your first and last name and everything. It’s strange…very strange…”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. He didn’t like the word “strange”, especially when the situation it was describing involved him. He felt a flash of anger towards this unknown Harry Potter: He had no right to intrude on Draco’s steady, normal life.

“Well, whatever’s wrong with him, I’m sure you can cure it,” Draco said dismissively, and picked the magazine back up with loud purpose.

“Yes, yes, I hope…well, I’ll tell him you absolutely do not know him. Thank you, Draco.” And with that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him, a slight draft the only evidence of his disturbance.

 _Harry Potter…_ Draco thought, letting the name settle in his mind. He couldn’t think of hearing the name ever before in his life.  He couldn’t imagine why this person would ever know Draco, though, and that’s what bothered him.

He screwed his eyes shut, bringing a hand to his face not unlike Dr. Brady just had, a heavy foreboding competing with the strong cry for substance’s reprieve. 

 

A few more days passed before the name “Harry Potter” reached him again. He was in the mess hall this time, and a stout nurse was talking with another rather pretty blonde lady at the table next to Draco and his chicken tortilla soup.

“He’s a lot better than he was when he first woke up, but Harry Potter still isn’t right,” she was saying, the blonde woman staring at her and listening with rapt attention. “He’s…hollow. I think we were too soon to tell him that everything he’d dreamt up wasn’t real, but Dr. Brady tells me it’s for the best, and he’ll get over it. But we have to consider,” her voice dropped suddenly, though Draco could still hear her, “the fact that he was only _eleven_ when he was brought in, the poor boy…I can only imagine what he’ll go through when he finally remembers why he’s here…”

“Is he going to remember, though?” the blonde woman finally spoke up, her tone worried and motherly. “He could just never remember, right? Then he could live with Xander and Joseph without any trouble…they could homeschool him and he could still get an education, right? He seems like a bright boy.”

Draco saw the older woman shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “I’m nearly positive he’ll remember, or at least, he’ll find out. He’s asked too many questions for it to be healthy for him…I can only hope that knowing the truth won’t destroy him, like his dreams almost did.” She let out a shuddering sigh. “I can only thank God that he wasn’t too devastated yesterday when Dr. Brady finally broke it to him…but honestly, what a magnificent imagination that boy has. Wizards and magic and a war that began before he was born? The way he described it to me was amazing—I felt so bad knowing that his stories would be shot down. If it were me, I’d want to live in a world full of magic rather than this one, too.”

She twirled her fork around the bowl of spaghetti once more before reaching up to wipe a tear from her eye. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He recognized the woman: Dr. Nelson, notoriously soft and a rather inadequate psychiatrist. He felt sorry for this Harry Potter, seeing as he had to deal with the woman on a daily basis, but glad that Dr. Brady was, judging from what the two woman had said, his head doctor. Dr. Brady was one of the best, and if anyone could help him, it was Dr. Brady. And from what he’d heard, it sounded like the best was the least Harry Potter would need.

 _Wizards and magic and a war…_ Draco found him playing with his soup as well. Where did he fit in to a world like that?

He tried questioning Dr. Brady more about Harry Potter over the course of his next few check-ups, but the man held fast to his doctor-patient confidentiality. Draco was both annoyed and impressed by the doctor’s unflinching loyalty to his morals, but he _wanted_ to know why Harry Potter knew him. He wanted to know how a completely normal man like himself would be included in a teenager’s wild coma-induced dreams of a world of magic.

He wanted to know how well a man he’d never known really knew him.

Over the course of only two weeks, Draco became obsessed. He wanted to meet the patient Harry Potter, to learn if he was just as normal as he knew he was, but in the boy’s dreams. What if he was unique? The thought scared him. He didn’t want to be different in any way, shape, or form. But Harry Potter both threatened his need for normalcy and opened a door for something more, something Draco had never been quite able to grasp on his own.

He listened closely to conversations Dr. Bryan had with any other nurses or doctors, kept close to the blonde nurse and Dr. Nelson during mealtimes, and was always listening for the name that had the power to destroy him at all times. And finally, weeks after Harry Potter’s return to consciousness, Draco was offered the chance to face his fears on a silver platter.

“He wants to meet you,” Dr. Bryan sighed into his hands, sitting down next to Draco’s bed. It was the day of Draco’s weekly check-up, which Dr. Bryan did more for routine’s benefit than Draco’s. Draco didn’t have any problems to discuss. He was fine.

“He—what?” Draco said, beside himself with surprise.

“Harry Potter wants to meet you,” the doctor elaborated, pulling his face free of his hands and meeting Draco’s blank stare. “He’s been on about you for a while now. He wants to make sure you’re not the Draco Malfoy from his hallucinations.” The man pulled a face. “I tried distracting him from the topic for a few days, but he’s dead-set. I don’t really know what to do with the situation other than let him have his way, so…if you’ll agree, he wants to meet you.”

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m going to—wow. Okay, yeah,” he said, still struck with shock. It was that simple, was it?

Dr. Brady shook his head. “Well, I’ll schedule a meeting for you two tomorrow. It’ll be in his room: We’ve got him isolated so he won’t do anything to himself he’ll regret. You know, standard procedure for the more major cases.” He could have been talking about a particularly bad brand of cereal he refused to buy at the supermarket. “He’s still got his restraints on. Personally, I don’t trust him without them…”

“Think he’ll hurt someone?” Draco asked, a pang of fear making its presence known at the pit of his stomach.

“No, no. He’d hurt himself before he’d hurt anyone else, and _that’s_ what I’m afraid of…”

“Well,” Draco said, his voice weak; he coughed to regain it. “Well,” he repeated, “tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” Dr. Brady nodded and stood to leave.

“Wait—!” Draco sat up and grabbed the doctor’s white long sleeve, effectively stopping him.

“What is it?” Dr. Brady asked warily, eying Draco’s hand. It was so unlike Draco to have outbursts.

Draco gulped, his throat a desert. “I…what if I don’t know what to say to him? What if I send him over the deep end? What if—”

“We don’t really have time to worry about ‘what if’s, Draco,” Dr. Brady said, sighing. “I want to cure this boy, and apparently, I need your help to do so. If you’re too scared to do it, then don’t. I think going and talking to him without having full confidence in yourself will do more damage than the good it might provide. And,” he added as Draco hesitantly let go of his sleeve, “I think it could even do you some good, too.”

“What—?”

“I’m not as blind as you may think I am, Draco,” he said, smiling curtly before leaving Draco alone in his plain, normal room, his head swimming in a maelstrom of so _not_ -plain and abnormal thoughts that all, some way or another, had to do with a one Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the tension builds before they even meet!


	3. New Faces and New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be doing algebra homework but I'm writing Harry Potter fanfiction. I both hate and love myself.

If he was being dreadfully honest, Harry didn’t like his new adoptive parents. No, it wasn’t a homophobic thing—he had had an inkling about Dean and Seamus, anyway, before leaving Hogwarts, and didn’t think any less of his two friends for that. He simply didn’t like the prospect of having two new “parents” that were thrust into his life by a decision made while he was still…unconscious.

And that. _That,_ the fact that his whole world, the world he’d known for seven whole years was _gone,_ never existed, had broken him. That was why Harry didn’t bother being dreadfully honest with his new adoptive parents. They were nice enough, and they listened when he talked desperately about the wizarding world, the world he’d give anything to return to. They didn’t chide him when he talked about how amazing it’d felt to finally accomplish the goal he had been born to meet, and the fact that he refused to believe otherwise. He talked to them about Malfoy, how they were going to talk. He talked about how he wouldn’t hate Malfoy so much if Malfoy would remember.

And he hoped.

“Harry, we’ll be back tomorrow, after your meeting,” Xander told him gently, pressing a hand to Harry’s shoulder in farewell. He nodded his new fathers off, exhausted from another hour session of talking about nothing but of Hogwarts and magic and his friends who definitely existed in this bizarre world as much as Malfoy did. He just had to find them.

“Dr. Brady said that you could come live with us as soon as he finishes up his diagnosis,” Joseph, or Jo, as he said he preferred to be called, said. “He said it could take a while, considering your condition, but we’ve waited seven years already. A few more months shouldn’t be too bad!”

Harry assumed it to be a joke. His lips twitched, but nothing more. He didn’t have to look at Jo’s face to see the crestfallen expression displayed there—he knew how badly the two men wanted him to reciprocate and engage with them. They had, after all, paid for Harry’s “treatment” for the past seven years due to their decision to adopt him (why anyone would want to adopt a random child in a coma was beyond him, but then, he guessed gays had a hard enough time adopting—and, he supposed, they thought he’d wake up earlier).

The Coma. He hated the phrase. The Coma, a seven year-long adventure in which he lived the best years of his life, all the while not really living it and lying in a hospital bed in a psychiatric hospital in reality. He hated it so much that his hatred took over his thoughts at random, and he would angrily spend the next few hours proving to no one but himself why The Coma didn’t really make sense.

How many times could he have died? Sure, he’d heard stories like “if you die in your dreams you really die” from Dudley when he was much younger and more naïve, but he could never deny how _real_ the threat of death was, how vital it had been to defeat Voldemort once and for all.

He’d had more sessions with Dr. Brady than he could keep count of since waking up. He asked questions and they were answered in return for his own answers. One particularly informative session had gone as such:

“What happened on the twenty-third of November?”

Dr. Brady glanced up from his clipboard. “November twenty-third? Why?”

“You were the one that asked me about it first.”

The tired-looking man forced a smile to penetrate the rapidly accumulating stress lines that littered his otherwise handsome features. “Oh. Well, sometimes you’d have periods of half-consciousness, when you’d sit up and say random things but wouldn’t respond when interacted with.”

“What kind of random things?” Harry asked. His voice was hollow; this session was after Dr. Brady had assured Harry that the wizarding world was not real.

“Oh, you’d mutter things like _‘Expelliarmus’_ or, on one _specific_ occasion, you said, _‘I see what Bellatrix meant, you need to really mean it.’_ Usually you sounded angry, or frightened—we related whatever you were saying to periodical bursts of a large amount of hormones associated with a particular emotion, the most common being rage, anguish, love…” He thought for a moment, calculating. “Lust, even.”

Harry didn’t flinch, disregarding Dr. Brady’s obvious attempt at a reaction. “But what if I was in battle? Would I talk a lot?”

“You had periods where you’d sit up for a long time, sometimes shouting things…I suppose that’s what you mean,” Dr. Brady said, obviously trying his best to repress a sigh at Harry’s unresponsiveness. Harry had a feeling the man regretted telling Harry that the world he loved didn’t exist, and he wanted the good doctor to feel every ounce of remorse he possibly could.

“Are you going to keep me here until I reject the world I grew up in?” Harry asked. “Because you’ll be keeping me for a long time.”

Dr. Brady seemed to appraise Harry in a new light at his words. “No, that’s not what I’m here for, Harry. I’m here to help you adjust to the world you’ll be living in from now on, so you’ll be healthier than when you arrived.” He frowned. “But yes, _that_ may take some time.”

“I hope not. I don’t like being strapped to a bed much,” Harry said, flexing his weak arms against the bands.

“Yes, well, you’re scheduled to begin physical therapy sessions next week. It will be hard, Harry, but after beating Voldemort, I’m sure you’ll be able to do it.”

Harry never spoke of the wizarding world to Dr. Bryan again.

_He thinks it’s a joke,_ Harry thought bitterly, days after that particular session. After that, the only thing Harry would mention to Dr. Bryan that was remotely related to Hogwarts was Draco Malfoy. He went on about how he wanted to meet him, which kept the man occupied and didn’t leave room for straying questions.

In truth, Harry _did_ want to meet this other-world Malfoy, but not as badly as he made it seem to Dr. Brady, who seemed steadfast in his initial decision not to let Harry communicate in any way with Malfoy. He did want to see if it was truly the Draco Malfoy of the wizarding world—and Merlin knows what he’d be able to deduce if that were true—but what if it wasn’t? What if it was just one big coincidence (Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly a common name but it was possible), and Harry had to live with even further proof that he would probably never see Ron, Hermione, or Ginny ever again?

After hours of going in circles, Harry called for Nurse Gracie. He asked her to flick the lights off for him, and no, he didn’t want any orange juice, he was just fine—he wanted peace from his warring thoughts. And the only peace he could find solace in was the cold darkness that gripped him when he was alone in his dark hospital room, his thoughts blown out like the lights, and a dark ceiling he could make the shape of Hogwarts out of if he tried hard enough.

 

It was the next day when Harry’s life changed drastically yet again, for worse more so than better in hindsight. But the hindsight came later, and for now, Harry was struck dumb by Dr. Brady’s words.

“I—today? I’m supposed to be meeting Malfoy _today_?” he stammered, wondering if he’d heard wrong.

“Yes, Harry. But, you see, Mr. Malfoy is quite possibly more nervous about this little meeting of yours than you are, so I ask you to not be so vigorous when you question him about things he’s probably never heard of.” Dr. Brady rubbed at his temples from his perch atop the rolling chair. He no longer sat at Harry’s side, but preferred to sit at the end across from Harry. “He won’t understand much of what you’re talking about, and I urge you not to blame him for that.”

“Well what if he _does_ understand?” Harry huffed indignantly.

“Then that will be great for all of us and maybe you’ll get out of here sooner than we thought,” Dr. Brady snapped.

Harry felt his lips twitch, tempting him to smirk—he had never managed to get a rise out of Carson Brady before, and now that he had, he felt a small surge of power work itself through his veins. The feeling was familiar; he’d felt it when he’d backtalked a number of people before, of whom being Snape, Umbridge, and Malfoy himself to name a few.

“When will he be here?” Harry asked, choosing to turn the other cheek.

“Shortly.” Dr. Brady’s knee was jerking as he tapped his foot. He looked nervous.

As if he’d recognized his own blatant display of unacceptable emotion for a psychiatrist, he excused himself, hastily making way for the door and bolting down the corridor before the door had even shut. Before it did, however, a painfully familiar, ghostly white hand reached out to bar it from closing.

And in entered Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter was a bit short, but I'm almost done with the next chapter, and it's a fairly decent size. It's also way more fulfilling than this setup here, and I finally get to play with Draco and Harry's new relationship!


	4. With Hostile Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was so much fun. If I left any plot holes or errors, it's probably because I was having too much fun and I'm content with just leaving them be.

Draco Malfoy was indeed every bit the Draco Malfoy Harry had been expecting—if maybe a little taller, more filled out, and if possible, paler.

“You—Malfoy?” Harry couldn’t keep the note of resentment from his voice. It was hard to acknowledge this man not as the Draco Malfoy he knew, but as the Draco Malfoy of “reality”—but maybe, just maybe, they were one in the same.

“Harry Potter?” the man asked in return. His voice was lower than Harry remembered Malfoy’s being, but he remembered that Dr. Brady had said the Draco Malfoy standing before him was twenty-three, a full six years older than the Draco Malfoy Harry knew.

But he had all the looks of the Draco Malfoy from Harry’s “coma-induced hallucinations”. Harry wondered if he possessed the signature Malfoy sneer, and pushed away his rising hope, not wanting his disappointment to be too bitter to handle.

“Draco. Draco Malfoy,” Harry repeated, watching as Malfoy walked in careful strides to the chair that had been occupied by Dr. Brady only seconds before.

“Harry Potter,” Malfoy replied again, as if not wanting to lose in whatever Harry was playing at. It was so Malfoy-like that it struck Harry, immobilizing him for a moment, and he could’ve sworn he saw the flicker of the afternoon sun above them, rows of benches and tables adorned with goblets and plates magically piled with delicious food around them as he stared, dumbstruck, at Draco Malfoy. It was the first thing that seemed like home to happen to him, and he felt a mixture of gratitude and hatred—the latter due to it being _Malfoy_ who elicited these emotions from him.

“You—you’re here,” Harry blurted, not knowing what else to say but needing to say _something._ “But I figured you’d go home, back with your parents…I mean, you were free. Voldemort was dead, and…” Harry dropped his voice to a whisper. “Why are you here?”

It looked as though Malfoy didn’t really know how to respond to his question. He looked like he wasn’t doing well digesting Harry’s words at all. Harry saw the blow coming before it hit: “Voldemort?” Malfoy echoed.

Harry went numb.

“Yes, Voldemort!” Harry couldn’t control his scream; it was already out, free of his throat before he could stop it. “The man you became a Death Eater for! The man who told you to kill Dumbledore! But there was hope for you yet, Malfoy, because you couldn’t, and Dumbledore knew you couldn’t…and I couldn’t have beaten Voldemort without you, true, but I still loathe you for everything you’ve done to Hagrid and Hermione and Ron and me and the rest of my friends and for being a Slytherin and just an all-around _asshole_ who doesn’t deserve to be in this world instead of Ron or Hermione!” Harry stopped only when lack of air prevented him from saying anything more. But after a few shuddering breaths and a rush of cold lack of empathy for the shocked man sitting across from him, he continued in a hoarse whisper, “ _Why_ did it have to be you instead of them…?”

“Look, kid, I don’t really know what you’re on about,” Malfoy managed, looking like he steeled himself in the few moments of silence that’d hung between them after Harry’s utterly rhetorical question. “But you…I—yeah, I just really don’t know what the fuck you’re on about. ‘Voldemort’? This ‘Ron and Hermione’? Sorry, never heard of them.” Somehow, of everything that could have happened in reply to Harry’s outburst, Malfoy’s face melted into that so familiar sneer Harry had learned to hate over the years at Hogwarts. “Bet I was a badass in your coma dreams, though.”

 _That_ didn’t agree with Harry. “No, you piece of shit!” Harry cried. “You were a worthless, defenseless piece of _scum_ that needed more saving than all your cliché Muggle damsels in distress combined! _I saved your life_ when you threatened to take Ravenclaw’s lost diadem to Voldemort and proceeded to let your _friend_ Crabbe burn the Room of Requirement to ashes! I could have left you to burn in the Fiendfyre! I should have!”

Malfoy’s sneer didn’t falter, though. “Or maybe I just knew that this _charming_ little hero would save me, the pretty damsel I was sure to be.”

Harry wanted to rip off his restraints and beat Malfoy senseless. He wanted Malfoy to scream apologies to every offence he’d ever made to any of his friends, starting with how he’d called Hermione a Mudblood and ending with taking back the ceaseless taunts and insults he’d thrown Hagrid’s way. Instead, he glared with even more ferocity at the man looking at him with mirrored hostility.

“You’re just as pathetic as you were at Hogwarts,” Harry growled.

Draco laughed. “Thank God I don’t actually live in your fantasies. I’d hate to live in a place called _Hogwarts,_ and I’m surprised the me in your hallucinations even put up with you, _Potter_.”

And that did it. Harry might as well have been back at the Hogwarts Quidditch field, standing up to Malfoy for the first time. It could have been the time he’d slung mud and snow at Malfoy and his cronies while under his Invisibility Cloak, suppressing his laughter so he could get one more hit on them. It could have been that night in the lightning-struck tower, with Harry frozen to the spot, watching Malfoy try to convince himself to kill Dumbledore. It was _Malfoy,_ whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Suddenly, the beginnings of tears burnt Harry’s eyes, prompting him to close them as he couldn’t wipe the sensation away. He let his head fall back to his pillow, and felt his anger rush out of him like water out a burst dam.

After a few moments without a reply from Harry, Malfoy continued, “Feeling sentimental, Potter?”

Harry waited a few more seconds until he was absolutely sure he wouldn’t cry, then settled his weakly angered gaze on Malfoy. It occurred to him he should be mad at Malfoy for insulting everything the past seven years had stood for, but the thought was fleeting and gone before he could work with it. For now, it was just him and Malfoy.

“You’re really him,” Harry croaked.

“What?”

“You’re really Draco Malfoy.”

“Of course I am,” Malfoy snapped.

“I’m glad.”

The man now looked wary of Harry. “Are you bipolar or something?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’m _glad,_ Malfoy. I thought you’d be completely different than the real Malfoy, but…” He sighed, content with his conclusion. “It’s like you’re really him.”

“I _am_ the ‘real’ Draco Malfoy, you dolt,” Malfoy drawled. “And sorry, but your description of whatever Draco Malfoy you made up doesn’t fit me. I’m not defenseless.”

Harry snorted. “You’re _exactly_ like Malfoy.”

For better or for worse, curiosity seemed to overtake Malfoy’s initial resentment towards Harry, and he leaned forward. “So this…world you keep talking about. The one where the…” He pondered something for a moment. “…The _‘real’_ Draco Malfoy lived. Tell me about it.”

And off Harry went. He could have been talking for hours, days, months…and he would have kept talking for forever. But eventually, the heavy door opened with an intrusive creak, cutting Harry off while he tried to explain Quidditch to Malfoy Two.

“Sorry Harry, I—” Dr. Brady froze, his eyes flicking rapidly from Harry to Malfoy and back again. “What—”

“Harry was talking to me about his wizarding world,” Malfoy said. Harry pulled a face at the use of his given name on Malfoy’s lips, but he supposed this Malfoy had no deep-rooted reason to hate him. At least, not like the Malfoy he knew had. But the gleam in the man’s eye when he spoke of Harry’s world was unmistakable. It was the same look that had taken to Harry’s face years ago, when Hagrid told him he was a wizard.

“Was he?” Dr. Brady was staring at Harry, as if he was supposed to laugh and say he’d actually been bullying Malfoy.

And sure, he could say it’d come close to something like that, but Draco Malfoy would never let himself be bullied, would he? Well, he wouldn’t admit to it, anyway. The closest Harry had come to threatening Malfoy was saying he wished he’d left him in the Fiendfyre, and the man didn’t even know what that was.

Because Harry was sure this Malfoy would get to that part of the story one day.

“Yeah. It’s amazing. The detail that’s gone into this world of his is beyond anything I’ve ever heard of!”

Harry gave a little cough. Hearing Malfoy compliment him was almost more than he could bear.

“And that, Mr. Malfoy, is not cause for celebration. It’s due to that imaginative world’s intricacy that Mr. Potter isn’t able to free his mind of that seven year-long dream and bring himself back to reality,” Dr. Brady said, his voice clipped as if he were annoyed that Harry and Malfoy had been enjoying themselves when he so obviously thought the opposite would occur.

Malfoy sniffed.

“Well, I’m tired anyway,” Harry lied, though he did want to be alone. “Can I sleep now?”

Dr. Brady looked almost thankful—for whatever reason. “Yes. Mr. Malfoy, please, come with me.”

He ushered the blond man out the door, but not before Malfoy cast a lingering look back Harry’s way, saying all there was to be said. He wanted to learn more.

As the door shut behind them, leaving Harry alone with a mixture of nostalgia, homesickness, and a strange sensation of being hollowed out in the middle. He tried to close his eyes and picture Ron and Hermione’s smiling, laughing faces, maybe in a wizard photograph where they truly came alive, but their features were blurred and indistinct.

It had only been just over two weeks since waking up from the most blissful seven years he’d ever lived, and he was already forgetting the faces of his best friends.

He couldn’t go on like this.

 _I need to find them,_ Harry told himself. If Draco Malfoy was alive and well in this world, Ron and Hermione were surely here, too. He just needed to look for them. He got lucky with Malfoy, but once he found his friends—even if they weren’t _really_ the Ron and Hermione he’d known, they were still the same person, right?—he wouldn’t feel this desperate need to rely on Malfoy as the one bridge between this unforgiving nightmare of a world to the one where he’d been surrounded by love and his friends and magic.

There was also a wisp of a thought nagging at the back of his mind, one he hadn’t cared or dared to elaborate, that he was indebting himself to Malfoy by relying on him, and therefore sliding himself into an inferior position. While he’d liked talking to Malfoy about Hogwarts better than telling his adoptive fathers or any of the doctors or nurses about it, that was because he was a familiar existence that Harry had simply known for the past seven years. Plus, it wasn’t even the real Malfoy (he liked to think of it like that whenever the wisp would make its presence known—Harry was very fickle about Malfoy’s validity). So why should it matter?

 _You’re betraying the rivalry you had with Malfoy._ Harry screwed his eyes shut tighter, wishing another dreamless sleep would overcome him right then as it’d been doing for the past few weeks. He supposed seven years of “dreaming” took its toll on the mind, after all.

“Harry?” The boy opened his eyes, meeting the soft gaze of the blonde nurse, Gracie. “Need anything?”

Harry glanced at the clock that hung on the otherwise blank eggshell wall to his right. Three-thirty: Gracie was here for Harry’s regular checkup he had to endure every half hour from nine in the morning to seven at night. He hadn’t been able to talk to Malfoy much; he figured Dr. Brady had left the room around three-ten.

“No,” Harry replied, and his voice sounded a tad more sullen than usual even to him. “I’m fine,” he tried again, attempting to sound less morose so as to not worry the nurse, but even the second try wasn’t convincing and he resigned himself to the fate of another visit from Dr. Brady that would be coming up shortly form the look on Nurse Gracie’s face. She had always seemed very attentive to Harry, and the slightest fluctuation from what she’d accepted as his norm would be reported. It was annoying, yes, but in a way he appreciated her motherly fussiness.

“You know,” Gracie said, “you can always talk to me about Hogwarts.” Gracie had been the only of Harry’s doctors to really invest in the world Harry had tried to convey to them. She seemed like she rather liked Harry’s recounting of the world he’d grown up in—not as much as Malfoy just showed how invested _he_ would be from that point forth, but still a very solid amount. He guessed he kind of favored her for that as well.

But as he agreed and started talking to her, going over points he’d already described and telling her stories beyond the point where they’d ended in their last session (that being the start of the Triwizard tournament—he was currently describing his shock when his name came out of the cauldron), he began to realize the whole experience felt off. _Less,_ to an extent. He kept comparing her slow nods to the way Malfoy hung on to his every word, taking in and imagining the wizarding world for himself, as Harry knew he surely had been doing. Gracie’s more-than-averagely-interested just wasn’t _enough_ anymore.

After a good ten minutes, Harry cut himself off just before he delved into the nitty-gritty details of the first task. “I’m tired,” he yawned.

“Right, of course, of course…Dr. Brady told me you were a bit drowsy, but I needed to check up on you even so….” She gave an awkward laugh when Harry didn’t reply, merely dropped his head back onto the pillow.

“Your physical therapy starts soon,” she said, seemingly out of nowhere. Harry gave a noncommittal shrug. “That’s got to be exciting though, right? No more bands.” When Harry continued his determined silence, there was the scratching noise of pen on clipped paper and she hurried out.

Days came and went after his meeting with Draco Malfoy, yet Harry did not mention the desire to hold another one, nor did Dr. Brady say anything about what they’d discussed or let Harry know if Malfoy wanted to speak to him again. He began his physical therapy in a small, private gym room with the physical therapist he was assigned: Dr. Njikam.

The doctor was nice enough—she didn’t favor Harry like Gracie did, and didn’t appear irked by Harry’s continued wishy-washy denial about what was reality, though maybe that was because they rarely talked about anything, save Dr. Njikam explaining workout routines to Harry or telling him to push harder or slow down. It was usually the latter by which she scolded him, though. The pain in his disused muscles rejuvenated him, however moderately he was able to use them. He had to be wheeled from the gym and back to his private room; he’d never realized how much energy simply standing up took.

He still wasn’t allowed out of his private room; he was brought meals, and his half-hour checkups persevered. But he was getting stronger each day, and Dr. Nelson had told him that he’d be ready to walk on his own in a matter of weeks.

“Dr. Njikam is one of the best,” she told Harry after a particularly hard session in which he completed five intervals of thirty-second assisted wall sits. His legs burning but his pride gaining altitude, he smiled at Dr. Nelson, then asked if she knew what workout Dr. Njikam had planned for him the next day.

Dr. Brady was pointedly short with Harry over the course of their next few sessions. Harry noticed it began immediately after his session with Malfoy, but he didn’t press the matter. He knew Malfoy wouldn’t be brave enough to confront Dr. Brady’s disapproval without the aid of any sidekicks (at least, Harry didn’t think Crabbe or Goyle existed here, and doubted that Malfoy would be able to make any friends without his pureblood status that had only existed in the wizarding world).

Suddenly, however, Dr. Brady brought up the topic himself during a biweekly session. Harry didn’t mind the shortened time he was graced with Dr. Brady’s presence, as the man used to attend to Harry daily, and preferred Nurse Gracie’s or Dr. Nelson’s visits instead. He’d even take Xander and Jo over Dr. Brady, at the rate Harry’s relationship with him was going.

Nonetheless, Dr. Brady asked, “Have you put much thought into talking to Draco again?”

Harry took the question in stride, surprising even himself. “I have. I’m not going to beg for it, no, because it’s just talking about Hogwarts and such, and I do enough of that.” It was a lie. He’d never tire of talking about Hogwarts and his life there, even if he ended up telling the story over a million times. “But if he wants to have another meeting, then sure, I’m up for it.”

He hoped he’d kept the eagerness out of his voice. The look on Dr. Brady’s face said he hadn’t. “Right. Well, Draco just won’t stop asking me to set up another meeting, and if it’ll help him….” Dr. Brady frowned, and to Harry’s surprise, he realized the good doctor might have just let something slip, spitting in the face of his doctor-patient confidentiality moral foundation.

“Right. For Malfoy,” Harry said dryly, almost sneering at the fact that Dr. Brady would never have forced Malfoy back into this room to talk to Harry if he hadn’t wanted to and their roles were reversed, and Harry wanted to talk to Malfoy more than Malfoy wanted to talk to Harry. The man needed some work on disguising his favoritism, in Harry’s opinion.

Dr. Brady’s expression soured at Harry’s remark, but he said nothing more on the topic and continued the required therapy Harry had been set for. Though Harry had been doing quite a good job of deterring any progress, as his hate for this horrible new world in which he only knew the walls of this small hospital room and the private gym was steadfast, even if his intuition wavered between beliefs.

At the end of the session, Dr. Brady told Harry the time of his and Malfoy’s next meeting. “Tomorrow at two, again.”

Harry nodded breezily, as if Dr. Brady had simply been informing him of the weather, and picked up one of the many books that were piled high on the wooden nightstand next to his bed.

He began to read uncomprehendingly, the black and white printed letters pulling on the aching remnants of Hermione Harry had left to himself. He didn’t want to think what would happen if he happened upon a big, wooly Christmas sweater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will start picking up soon to live up to the M rating…after all, I’m blazing through this story faster than my Hannibal fics, which is weird, but I’m all for it. Praise for this pairing!  
> Quick side note tho, I didn’t really intend to hate Dr. Brady, but he was turning into a Gary Stu sort of character and I needed some more angsty elements to add to this pile of emotional shit. Though I guess I’m not conveying that as well as I should be, seeing as Harry really is undergoing emotional turmoil atm… (':

**Author's Note:**

> Quick word of advice: Always expect the worst with this fic. There will hardly ever be a good outcome when it involves these two in this new (well, new for Harry) world.  
> Also, this fic will include alcohol and drug abuse and addiction. If this bothers you in any way, by all means, don’t trouble yourself with this fic!  
> Thank you for reading; don't want to be a review whore but comments are appreciated!


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